Page 5
Dylan
Two
Dylan
Two thousand and forty dollars. I counted it three times last night, sitting on my bed in my work shirt with my feet throbbing. Then I laid it all out on my comforter in little stacks, hundreds with the hundreds and twenties with the twenties, like I was fucking Nino Brown. That’s how Tasha found me when she got home from her shift.
She stopped dead in my doorway in her bonnet. “Bitch. Who did you rob?”
I laughed hysterically. “Nobody! It’s a tip!”
Her eyebrows rose to her hairline. “A tip?” She came in and shut the door behind her like the police was outside. “From who?”
“Some guy. He ordered a Macallan,” I add like that explains it.
“Dylan, nobody tips thousands of dollars for a Macallan.” She sat on the edge of my bed, picked up a hundred and held it up to the light, checking. “Girl, this is not a tip. It’s a deposit.”
I blink. “On what?”
She looked at me over the bill. “You, dummy.”
I snatched it back. I didn’t tell her about the man whose face got slammed into a table. Or the big hand around my wrist, the thumb rubbing slow circles on my pulse, or how my panties were still damp four hours later. A girl’s gotta keep some things for herself.
* * *
This morning, I paid my rent. On time. First time in months. Then I paid the light bill. Then I went to Ralphs and bought real groceries, not ramen, not the dollar bread. Then I stood in the parking lot holding a rotisserie chicken like it was a newborn baby.
So yeah. I’m a little emotional about Sasha. Whoever the hell that man is.
* * *
He’s back. I see him the second I come out with a tray of lemon drops for the bachelorette party in section three. Same booth. Same corner. No Enzo this time. Nobody else at the table. Just him, and a big blond man standing by the velvet rope with his hands folded in front of him like fucking Secret Service.
I almost drop my tray.
Last night it was dark, and I’d been on my feet eight hours. I told myself I made him bigger in my head. I didn’t. This man is bigger. Six-five, easy. His shoulders take up half that booth. His thighs are stretching his black slacks so tight I can see the muscle. He’s wearing what’s definitely a tailored suit, no tie, with a white shirt open at the collar. I can see a tattoo crawling up his neck. More on his knuckles. His dark hair is cut short, gray at the temples like a whole silver fox. A short beard on a jaw you could break a brick on. A scar through one eyebrow. A nose that’s definitely been broken. And them eyes. Pale, pale blue. Cold as ice on everybody else in the room. But on me, they’re not cold, and they are on me right now. He’s not smiling. He’s just watching me carry lemon drops across the floor like I’m the only show on TV.
Lord, help me.
This man is old enough to be my daddy. For real. Mama had me at nineteen. Shit, he might be older than my mama. But my body doesn’t care about that math. Not one bit. My nipples are hard as hell under my shirt. My pussy’s clenching like it’s trying to wave at him. And I’m walking across this club, holding a tray of drinks, thinking about how big his hand was around my wrist last night, and wondering how big the rest of him is…
Girl, focus!
I do not focus.
I hand out the cocktails. The bride’s wearing a sash that says Last Night Out and she’s crying. Girl.
Then I go to the bar and tell Kevin, “Macallan eighteen. Neat.”
“Who ordered it?” He asked absently.
I smirk to myself. “Nobody yet.”
Kevin looks past me to the corner booth. His eyebrows going all the way up. “Ohhh. Okay. I see you.”
My smile only gets bigger. “You don’t see anything, Kev. Just pour.”
* * *
